


LXXXVII

by savedby



Series: Bold in Gold [3]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Vegas Golden Knights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 21:32:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11322153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savedby/pseuds/savedby
Summary: “It’s not like I stole your number,” Vadim says, somewhat perturbed. “I’ve worn it forever. If you want it gone from my jersey, you should talk to NHL management. I’m told they’re really fond of you.”Crosby shakes his head. “I tried that already,” he says, “they wouldn’t budge.”“So what do you want?”





	LXXXVII

**Author's Note:**

> Coincidentally, this fic could also have been titled 'Vadim is really done with weird North American hockeys'

 

 

Sidney Crosby isn’t high on the list of people that Vadim expects to see in the hotel bar in Pittsburgh before the Knights game against the Penguins, and yet, there he is. Crosby is wearing a pair of thick rimmed glasses and a hat, presumably as some sort of disguise. It only makes him stand out more. 

 

He also seems to be getting closer, swapping stools whenever Vadim glances away, until they’re sitting elbow to elbow. 

 

“Hello,” Sidney Crosby says, after a brief period of awkward silence.

 

“Hi,” Vadim replies, taking a big gulp of his cranberry vodka. It’s actually just cranberry juice, because it’s been years since he’s been dumb enough to drink the day before a game, but sitting in a bar is still meditative for him.

 

Vadim glances at his face, finds him staring intensely at his glass of water. Probably upset that there’s no lemon slice in it, because he’s on some sort of Vitamin C cleanse.

 

As if on cue, Crosby waves over the bartender. “Excuse me,” he says, “could I get a lemon slice in my water? I’m on a Vitamin C cleanse.”

 

Vadim sighs.

 

“You’re wearing my number,” Crosby states through a mouthful of lemon slice. He’s eating it rind and all, which, gross. There are so many pesticides in that. Maybe if Crosby gets poisoned, they’ll have an easier time playing him tomorrow. 

 

Vadim carefully offers him the lemon slice on the rim of his glass, which Crosby accepts enthusiastically, popping it into his mouth. Rind and all.

 

“It’s not like I stole your number,” Vadim says, somewhat perturbed. “I’ve worn it forever. If you want it gone from my jersey, you should talk to NHL management. I’m told they’re really fond of you.”

 

Crosby shakes his head. “I tried that already,” he says, “they wouldn’t budge.”

 

“So what do you want from me?”

 

“I want you to have sex with me,” Crosby says, like he’s talking about the weather.

 

Vadim stares. He’s not used to hookups within the league being discussed so openly. Back home something like this would be negotiated with a series of complicated non-verbal cues, designed to avoid notice of the KGB agent sitting in every bar.

 

Vadim looks around, trying to guess which of the other patrons could have been sent by the Trump administration. You can never be too careful.

 

He must take too long to answer, because Crosby starts babbling.

 

“It’s okay if you aren’t into it,” he says, “but can you close your eyes and pretend it’s a woman or something? This is really important-”

 

“Why is it important?” Vadim asks, waiting for his brain to catch up to the proceedings.

 

“What?”

 

“That we, uh…” Vadim wiggles his eyebrows and flares his nostrils in the code for ‘sex, probably oral because we have a game tomorrow’. Sid stares at him blankly, so Vadim decides to use his new knowledge of North American idioms. “That we do the nasty.”

 

“Oh!” Sid says, lighting up. “It’s for good luck. Because you have my number.”

 

Vadim takes another sip of his cranberry juice even though it’s pretty much empty. He eyes the shelves of alcohol thoughtfully. Maybe it’s not too late for a drink. Crosby is still talking, something about celestial bodies and his spiritual connection to the number 87. 

 

Vadim looks him over. He’s not usually an ass man, but Crosby’s is famous, even in Russia. He’s got a nice mouth, when it’s not spouting nonsense. Good hands. And good hockey, which Vadim has always found to be a turn on.

 

“Okay,” he says, cutting Crosby off in the middle of a rant about wheat grass in smoothies, “let’s go to my room.”

 

He gets up, throws some bills on the table and walks out the hotel bar making Crosby scramble to catch up with him. Vadim does hold up the elevator for him, because now that he’s thought about it, he’d rather like to get laid.

 

“Hey, Shipachyov,” Crosby starts, and Vadim winces at the way he mangles the pronunciation.

 

“You can call me Vadim,” he says, which gets him a startled smile right as the elevator doors open.

 

All the rooms the team booked are down the same hallway, and as Vadim takes out his key, Crosby hovering just behind his shoulder, he wonders if he’d told Flower about his plan of...well, seduction is a strong word. Flower probably encouraged it.

 

In fact, Vadim fully expects there to be some form of prank waiting for him tomorrow, if only to distract Flower from his emotional homecoming. 

 

Vadim chances a look at Crosby, finds him frowning at something over Vadim’s shoulder. He follows his gaze to see he’s staring at the room number.

 

It’s 7187.

 

“I never get lucky room numbers,” Crosby mutters under his breath, right as the light on the door turns green and unlocks. Vadim restrains himself from rolling his eyes. 

 

He’s barely closed the door behind him, when Crosby pushes him against it. Vadim is taller, but he lets him do it, pinning his wrists against the wood.

 

“Any second thoughts?” Crosby asks, his careful tone a contrast to his tight grip.

 

“It’s your luck we’re gambling with,” Vadim shrugs, as much as he can, trying and probably failing to look unaffected. “I guess you need the advantage-”

 

He doesn’t get to say anything else, because Crosby is kissing him.

  
  


*

  
  


“You know, Ovi told me you were weird, but I thought he was joking,” Vadim says, idly watching Crosby do naked push-ups on the hotel room floor. After they finished an admittedly great round of sex, Crosby let out a moan then rolled off the bed and onto the floor, where he immediately started a workout. 

 

Something about testosterone levels, Vadim wasn’t really listening. The play of his muscles as he stretched and sweated was interesting, and honestly really doing it for him.

 

“Wait, Ovi?” Crosby rolls onto his back and starts doing furious situps. Vadim raises an eyebrow at him.

 

“We’ve played together before,” Vadim points out.

 

“But why were you gossiping about me?” Crosby asks. Vadim stays quiet, waits for him to connect the dots, and is vindicated when he sits bolt upright. “Wait, did you sleep with Ovi?”

 

“That’s none of your business.” Ovi is notoriously talkative after sex.

 

Crosby frowns. “If you did it with Ovi, we have to do it twice. That’s the rules.”

 

There’s something different in his tone, and Vadim doesn’t know him well enough to know what it means. He looks down at Crosby, sitting buck naked on the hotel room carpet, the worry creases on his forehead making him look curiously vulnerable, then glances at the clock.

 

It really was very good sex. The best he’s had in a while.

 

“I gave him a handjob when we were in Juniors,” Vadim says.

 

Crosby curses under his breath and scrambles onto his feet.

 

Vadim sighs. “Why don’t you just stay here over night? It’s late, and we have a game tomorrow and-”

 

“I’d like that,” Crosby says, and the frown is gone. Instead, he’s smiling, like he did in the elevator, boyish and pleased. Vadim pats the space next to himself on the bed and he takes the invitation.

 

*

 

Vadim gets woken up by the sound of a text message. 

 

He reaches over to the nightstand, trying to maneuver around Crosby, who’s sleeping like a log on Vadim’s chest. He finally manages to pull his phone towards him, ripping out the charger as he does.

 

The text is from a number he’s got in his contacts, but has never used.

 

‘Is my captain with you?’ it says, and Vadim groans, shifts Crosby around so he can type around his back.

 

‘Yes’ he texts, then waits, scrolling idly through his phone, nudging Crosby whenever he lets out a particularly loud snore. His phone chimes with another incoming message and he thumbs it open.

 

Evgeni Malkin has sent him an aubergine emoji.

 

Vadim stares at it for a while, then down at Crosby. He’s sleeping, face buried in Vadim’s chest, muttering something under his breath every so often. Vadim’s pretty sure it’s tactical plays, but he can’t make out enough to take notes.

 

If Vadim let him sleep in and miss Penguins practice, would that technically be considered sabotage?

 

As if on cue, Crosby lets out a loud snore and Vadim reflexively hits him in the shin. Maybe if he subtly bruises him, their D will have an easier time keeping up.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I always find it especially annoying when people make an argument that a player can't wear a certain number just because it's worn by their fave. 
> 
> Also, note that I don't think that there are KGB agents in every bar in Russia, watching out for gay hookups, nor do I think that the Trump administration is doing something like that. Yet.
> 
> Relatedly, if you're reading this piece of writing because it triggered an alert for the mention of your international spy agency, kindly leave me some kudos. It's appreciated.


End file.
